


Ghosts of Love

by RavenXavier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Monsters in love, Unhealthy Relationships, post-Watcher's Crown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 06:03:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20335294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier
Summary: Nothing made Martin more grounded in the world than yearning for Jonathan Sims.





	Ghosts of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is me basically going spitefully: "Oh you want _ angst _ ? You want _ lonely!martin _ ? JUST WATCH ME GIVE IT TO YOU" so. mind the tags. 
> 
> Honestly at the very least it would have done its job and helped me just a bit more to handle canon... better. 
> 
> Thanks so, so so much as always to my awesome beta-reader [ HermaeusMora ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermaeusMora/pseuds/HermaeusMora) for their comments and enthusiasm (and...tears?) as well as [ Elenchus ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenchus/pseuds/Elenchus) who took my hand and guided me through the painful road of editing a bit (I'm afraid I might have just have followed just a little bit of your excellent advice, but - that's actually progress for me so)
> 
> I hope you guys like it!

Martin had always prided himself on his ability to take the time to appreciate the small joys of life. 

Anyone might have been quite put out by how bare his flat was, for example, with its white walls and frozen land pictures, its expensive and uncomfortable couch - a gift from Peter - or even the lack of any proper mess or personal objects beyond Martin’s clothes in his bedroom. But all that Martin generally saw when he came home was the smallest touches of _ Jon _that coloured the place and that was more than enough. 

There was Jon’s old blanket, carefully folded onto the couch, something his grandmother had once knitted for his father, and that she’d passed on to Jon after his parents’ deaths. Jon’s old glasses rested on the desk next to Martin’s computer, and a few of his books had found their way into Martin’s otherwise empty bookcase. Tucked between Martin’s shirts there was a battered and used ‘What the Ghost’ t-shirt and an expensive and lovely cardigan, both of which Martin remembered Jon to have looked utterly lovely in. In the bathroom, Martin also had a bottle of Jon’s perfume, as well as his favourite brand of shampoo. 

All of those little reminders made Martin feel warm to the point of childish giddiness when he let himself linger on them long enough, something he often indulged in, especially after tiring days. He liked the comfort of it, the sweetness of the memories they each carried through; it felt as if all of those objects were just an extension of Jon and therefore each and every single one of them was carefully, tenderly taken care of; Martin washed Jon’s clothes every week, and enveloped himself in the blanket on cold nights, and played at domesticity with genuine glee. It only took one look at Jon’s glasses, or a sniff of Jon’s perfume, to immediately feel the ghost of Jon next to him; Martin only had to close his eyes, and Jon was smiling at him the way he did when he was the most endeared, small and warm and huffed, or sitting on that damn couch - no, on Martin’s lap - head buried in Martin’s neck, his clumsy fingers curiously running up and down Martin’s chest. 

And, of course, there were also the tapes; they were without any doubt Martin’s favourites, proudly displayed under Jon’s books. Martin took the time to label every single one of them by hand with their date and some bit of context, and ordered them in a way he thought Jon would like; it resembled the old Archives system he’d tried to put into place, and perhaps that was stupidly romantic of Martin, but it wasn’t like Jon had ever protested, so he figured it was fine. There were a little over fifty of them, nowadays. He rarely listened to them at all, frankly; but when he did listen to Jon’s lovely voice, the memory of the day it had captured was often so overwhelming that he felt chilled and aching for a week or two afterwards. Nothing made Martin more grounded in the world than yearning for Jonathan Sims. 

He told Jon, often. Whenever a tape recorder turned on, which happened at least every couple of days or so, he sat down and brushed his fingers against it the way he liked to do against Jon’s skin, and he rambled on just how much he loved him. Of where he would like to take him and what he’d like them to do, of what he liked most about his eyes and what he missed most about his smile. Sometimes, when babbling about Jon’s hands wasn’t enough, he softly recited love poetry, and didn’t try to stop himself from smiling, his throat tight and his chest painful, when he inevitably felt Jon’s eyes piercing right through his soul, hungry. 

_ Those _ particular tapes Martin generally didn’t bother with after they were recorded, though. There were too many of them to keep neatly, and all of them were too - _ Martin. _If he truly liked one of the poems, he took the time to send it to the Institute. All the others ended up in recycling. 

And then, of course, once in a while, when he was feeling a bit numb and restless and brave, Martin stepped into the fog and went to the Magnus Institute himself, to pay a visit to Jon in person.

* * *

There was nothing more familiar in the world to Martin than the sight of Jon sitting at his desk in the middle of his office, a tape recorder in reach, eyes seemingly lost to nothingness. He used to hunch over his papers, Martin remembered fondly, but the chains that bound him to his throne were short enough that it had slowly changed over the years, and now he kept his back straight, looking all the more imposing for it, despite his unkempt hair and eternally frumpy clothes. 

“Martin,” he said immediately, half a second before Martin properly appeared, tilting his head unconsciously.

Martin dutifully kissed the cheek he was offering him and gently twirled a finger around Jon’s hair. “Hi, Jon,” he said, tenderness spilling out of his mouth faster than his words. 

Jon shuddered, but did not look directly at him; a kindness - Jon’s stares were too dangerous, these days, for someone like Martin. Martin missed catching his lovely, beautiful dark eyes, warm and intense, focusing on him. But he could still feel them, which was pleasant enough.

“It’s been a long time,” Jon said, overly neutral as if Martin couldn’t feel the slow, stuttering beat of his heart. 

“Has it?” 

Martin glanced down at the calendar on Jon’s desk. It was still stuck on the 4th of November, 2032. “Oh,” he said, because he hadn’t checked which day it was today before leaving home, but he _ was _aware enough of his surroundings to know they were well into spring. “I’ll get you a new calendar. Have you received my Christmas gifts?”

“I did. They were lovely, thank you. I wore the scarf for a while, but it’s not cold enough anymore.”

It was never cold, down in Jon’s archives, and they both knew it. Everything here was pinned down under the stare of the Eye, frozen in a never ending moment. Jon himself looked exactly the same as he had almost fifteen years ago; thin and sharp and gorgeous, dark and grey hair falling to his shoulders in loose curls. He looked tired and busy and soft, not a day older than the one he’d sat on his throne to be crowned. Martin itched to bend down and kiss him, but instead he let go of Jon’s hair, and gently ran his hand along Jon’s arm.

“I’m glad it was useful,” he told him, and Jon huffed a laugh. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“I - yes,” Jon answered after a beat too long. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll be back in a bit, then,” Martin said cheerfully. 

Jon’s office was not exactly - _ Jon’s office _anymore, of course. Not the one Martin remembered still, at least, the one which had been cramped and cluttered with too many boxes everywhere. Jon’s office now stretched beyond the common eye, perfectly circular, fourteen corridors filled to the brim with statements and tapes surrounding it. All of them, Martin knew, appeared to only go forward in a straight line, but if you walked long enough through one, you suddenly realized they overlapped and intertwined, until suddenly your blissful, peaceful fog turned so vast it gave you vertigo - at best - or started to feel unfamiliar and unknown, at worst. Martin had only made the mistake of walking down the lonely path once. Now he took a shortcut through the graveyard every time he wanted to reach the small Archives’ kitchen.

Martin’s mouth dried up, when he entered there; it had once been his kingdom. He knew the small room better than most places, and even now he felt an odd, discordant, twisting feeling in his stomach whenever he stepped inside. It tasted like nostalgia and longing, and he took the time to soak it up as he made his way to the cupboards. He grabbed Jon’s favourite tea - it was the only kind left in there - and two mugs. There was a thin layer of dust on them both, so he took the time to rinse them and washed the old boiling kettle too at the same time.

He’d have to change it as well, one day; those particular details tended to escape Elias’ eyes - too small, too human, too _ unimportant. _Elias had no idea what truly mattered to Jon, Martin had figured long ago. It was a good thing Jon had him for this. (It was a good thing that Martin, too, didn’t appear to age at all. He didn’t know whether it was Jon’s doing or Forsaken’s. It didn’t particularly interest him. As long as he could still take care of Jon, he was content.)

He carefully poured the hot water into the mugs and made his way back to Jon; when he arrived, this time, he allowed himself to stare at him first. Jon was back to looking into emptiness, his lips slightly parted, and everywhere the sensation of being watched prickled at the back of Martin’s neck. He was used to it mostly - but in Jon’s office it was harder to ignore. Still, it was Jon who was the mantelpiece of the room, certainly not _ Martin _; regal and radiating power even as he leant against the back of his throne, the silver crown disappearing into his flesh at his temples, all fourteen eyes on it staring steadily at the corridors without blinking. 

He looked like a fairytale prince, Martin thought fondly, if fairytale princes were just a tad more scary than charming. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten about me,” he said at last, coming up closer. 

Jon did not startle; he lowered his eyes to the side, ever so slightly, and said: “No, I was just - thinking.”

“What about?” 

“... You.” 

Martin bit down a grin. “There you go,” he said, putting the two mugs on the desk. 

He gently moved the rest of Jon’s papers out of the way as Jon watched him, silent and thoughtful. Then, he leant at the edge of it, letting his foot brush against Jon’s, and grabbed his warm mug again. 

“What were you thinking about me?” he asked. 

“You already know,” Jon said with a slight scowl. 

“Pretty sure we said communication was important, Jon.”

“_ Right. _” Jon pursed his lips. Then he sighed, and softly, quietly, he admitted: “I miss you.”

The present tense hit Martin harder than he expected; he sucked in a breath, hands clutching harder at his mug, and his eyes fluttered in both pain and pleasure. “I miss you too,” he said gently. “Every day.”

“Then why don’t you -” Jon started and then cut himself off. The tips of his ears were pink and his frown severe. “I understand that it’s not - very - _ entertaining, _down here, but I could - I mean if you truly don’t like it here, I… Perhaps - we could discuss the idea of… going… elsewhere.”

Martin hummed and imagined it; being outside, with Jon. He would take his hand and Jon would stiffen and then relax, and they’d go for lunch - and then, Martin could show Jon his favourite library, and they’d come home only after another hour walking in Martin’s favourite park. Jon would sit on the couch and Martin would make tea and they would go to bed together, always together - it sent a thrill down his spine, even as he brought his mug to his lips and found that the tea was bittersweet and too hot. He blinked a few times, chasing away tears, and considered the fact that, years ago, he would have stammered his way into saying ‘yes’ too fast for Jon to properly understand him. 

Now he was more than happy to merely dream about it. He had done it so, _ so _many times that Jon and he might as well be married, by now. But every few years or so, Jon grew impatient; it was in his nature to push, and Martin wouldn’t have wanted him any other way. Jon’s need of him was as intoxicating as Martin’s love. 

He tenderly caressed the heavy manacle around Jon’s wrist, and Jon’s shoulders fell ever so slightly. “I do like it here,” he said, genuine. 

“...Right,” Jon said quietly, and when he finally reached for his tea, he looked exhausted, the chains binding him clicking loudly in the silence falling between them. 

Sometimes, Martin wondered if Jon even remembered why he’d asked to be chained there in the first place. Martin knew that _ he _ had found it horrifying, the first time he’d seen it. He’d yelled at Elias, and Elias’ eyes had gleamed, when he’d said it was a special request from his Archivist. _ Do you know how many people I will hurt, if I roam the streets after this? _ Had whispered Jon to him through Elias’ lips. He’d sounded exhausted and resigned and sad. Now Jon’s chains made Martin’s heart swell with something he couldn’t quite describe. _ Rightness, _ perhaps. Jon fit so well here; protected from the outside and from himself. Safe and powerful and forever _ here. _

Waiting for Martin to visit.

Martin couldn’t help it; he put his hand over Jon’s, and intertwined their fingers, squeezing them gently. Jon’s eyes fell on them, and he squeezed back. 

“Tell me about your Christmas,” Martin said. “What did I miss?”

“It’s not exactly like Elias came down here to exchange presents, Martin,” Jon said, a bit snappishly. 

“He could have at least brought a Christmas tree,” Martin said. “I ran the Institute for a bit. He totally has time to do that if he wants to.”

Jon’s lips quivered into a reluctant, amused smile. “He does have other matters to tend to than the Institute now,” he said, indulgent. “But I’ll make sure to notify him of that.”

“Good.” Martin’s thumb ran distractedly over Jon’s palm. “I made a Christmas tree,” he told him. “I put that angel that makes me think of you - the one with the scowling face? - on top of it.”

“...I know,” said Jon, and Martin smiled at him, endeared. He almost asked what else Jon knew (everything, Jon knew everything, and that was terrifying in the best possible way) but before he could, Jon added: “I frankly don’t see the resemblance though. You should have gone with the cat.”

“Well you’d _ say that, _” Martin snorted. He brought Jon’s hand to his lips impulsively, and kissed it softly; Chills ran down Jon’s arm up to his neck, and he made a small, wounded sound. Martin kissed it again. “I’ll do that next year, promise,” he said. “Or I’ll send it to you.”

“You could -” Jon began, but his voice faded before finishing his sentence; his longing was so strong, this time, that Martin’s heart almost burst in his chest; he closed his eyes, breathed out slowly against Jon’s hand, and let himself see what Jon wouldn’t say; both of them bickering in front of the Christmas tree, Jon wearing a sweater Martin had knitted for him, and inevitably caving in when Martin let his hand trail over his cheek. Unreachable. Impossible. _ Beautiful _. Forever untainted by their reality. 

“Helen came by for the new year,” Jon said at last, after a while. Martin’s eyes fluttered back open. “I think she’s definitely done being mad. She couldn’t stay long, but it was nice. She - er - she brought food.”

“How kind of her,” Martin muttered. Elias was one thing - Elias was an unfortunate necessity to Jon’s well-being. Helen’s insistence on being Jon’s - something was… annoying, when Martin thought about it too long.

Jon shrugged. “She’s someone to talk to.”

“...Are you trying to make me jealous?” Martin asked with a frown.

“What?” Jon, bless his heart, looked bewildered. “No. Of course not. You just asked -”

“About Christmas -”

“And I didn’t have anything to say about _ that, _so -”

“It’s just that you relying on the _ Distortion _is not exactly what I’d call -”

“Now you’re just sounding like Elias -”

“ - good for you… Elias? Seriously?”

“Helen irritates him,” Jon said. “And he’s also… peculiar about some of my visitors.”

He glanced pointedly at their hands. Martin couldn’t decide whether to scoff or to preen, and that brought another smile to Jon’s lips, quick and warm. Martin thought of kissing it and felt another wave of tenderness wash over him when Jon raised his head slightly, expectant. He put his mug down, and traced the contours of his mouth, enjoying the way Jon’s heart missed several beats and then started to pound in his chest, racing like it was trying to catch up to something. Then, he moved up, enveloped Jon’s cheek, and Jon let out a shaky breath, leaning immediately against it. 

“I mean, _ she’s _dangerous,” Martin murmured; it was a bit petulant, perhaps. 

Jon rolled his eyes. “No,” he said dryly. “That’s the point. She’s not. She hasn’t been in a long time. I doubt she’d be able to harm me, even if she wanted to. And she _ doesn’t _, contrary to others.”

Martin stilled. “...Did Basira come back?” he asked.

“Of course she did,” Jon sighed. “She always does.”

“_ Jon - _”

“She needed information,” Jon said calmly. 

“So she can find a better way to try and kill you next time?” Martin snapped. 

“I - that was probably part of the goal, yes.” 

“I can’t _ believe you - _”

“It’s not like she’s going to succeed,” Jon said. 

Martin let his hand drop; Jon’s face fell. It left a pleasant gap in Martin’s chest that he ignored. He was too annoyed.

“She might!” he exclaimed. “One day! If you keep - keep feeding her any information she wants -”

“ - that’s what I’m here for -” Jon muttered.

“Elias should have dealt with her _ ages ago, _ ” Martin spat. “You - you clearly still don’t have any bloody self-preservation, I thought that’s what he was here _ for _-”

“Martin.” 

“If he keeps on being useless, I swear I’ll just go find her myself -”

“_ No _.”

“What?”

Jon’s eyes met his. Dark, beautiful. Dangerous. Martin lost all his breath; in an instant he was stripped and exposed, the fog fleeing from him, chased by a look. He was four and blaming the neighbour’s dog for the crushed flowers. He was ten and desperately searching through the phonebook for any man named _ Blackwood. _He was fourteen and hiding from the first boy he’d ever kissed. He was twenty-two and wishing, so badly, that he could hate his mother back. He was twenty-nine, and staring into those same eyes and thinking -- thinking --

“Jon -” he managed to say.

“You won’t touch a hair on Basira.” The Archivist said. “She’s ours.”

When he glanced away, stone-faced and icy, lips pressed tightly together, Martin felt like a small eternity had passed. He blindly grabbed his mug and drank the last of his tea; it was still hot, and left a bitter taste on his tongue. Jon’s shoulders were shaking. 

“Okay,” Martin said after a moment of silence; soothing. “Okay. I’m just - I _ worry _, Jon. You know that.”

Jon laughed. It sounded harsh. “Look at me,” he said. “The story has ended, Martin. The villain won. Let Basira try all she wants. She’s ours and she knows it as well as me.”

“You’re not a _ villain _,” Martin protested instinctively.

“I’ve literally ended the world as we knew it,” Jon retorted sarcastically. 

“...It’s not so bad now, really.”

“Most days, I suppose.”

_ When you’re not here, _ Martin completed for him as Jon sighed tiredly, letting his head carefully fall back against the back of his throne. _ When you don’t remind me of everything that was lost. _ There was no point in arguing further, Martin thought. Jon was - sensitive when it came to certain people. _ Protective _ . It was a flaw of his. In any case, he had no desire to fight with him, or to see him genuinely sad - not about all this. Not about _ others. _

“Come here,” he said softly.

He pulled gently on Jon’s sleeve. Jon frowned, hesitant, before slowly, carefully, raising to his feet. His legs trembled a bit. As soon as he was up, Martin leant against him and enveloped him in a tight embrace. Jon made a small noise and his chains rattled as he fiercely put his arms around Martin, leaning his head against his shoulder. They’d gotten longer, Martin distractedly noticed, caressing the nape of Jon’s neck and pressing a lingering kiss right where the crown melted with Jon’s skin. Jon hadn’t been able to fully hug him back, the last time they’d done this. 

He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly; Jon’s nails dug into his back as he pressed as close as he could. There was something desperate in the way he held him, and Martin’s shoulders relaxed in answer. He kissed Jon’s brow, Jon’s cheek, Jon’s jaw, and Jon melted against him, _ craving. _Martin’s toes curled with pleasure. 

Not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he went against Jon’s desires, and got rid of Basira, or Helen; if he severed every link Jon still had left with the outside world that wasn’t food or the Ceaseless Watcher, until Jon only had Martin left, just like Martin only had Jon. Even _ Elias, _ he thought, feeling light-headed at the fantasy. It would be harder, but oh so pleasant, to make him disappear as well. Nothing left except the two of them; he could imagine it so perfectly. Jon, sitting on his throne, utterly alone, unable to rely even on the devotion and affection of his Watcher. Waiting, day after day, for Martin - so beautifully, magnificently _ lonely - _

“Elias is thinking of coming down,” Jon murmured. 

“Is he?”

“He’s worried.”

“Whatever for?” Martin asked, unimpressed. “Your virtue?”

“That you’re going to take me to Forsaken,” Jon said. His grip on Martin loosened, ever so slightly. “Or rather, that I’ll let you.”

Martin’s heart skipped a beat, his whole body thrumming in cold delight, his mind dizzy with want. “Would you?” he asked in a breath. 

“...I don’t know,” Jon whispered softly. “I - I really don’t.”

Martin took a step back; Jon’s hands tightened around him in answer, instinctive and shaky, and Martin devoured the distance between them, those few inches that were everything the world had made of them. He raised his hands to Jon’s face, throat tight with so much love he didn’t know what to do with it, and Jon kindly looked down. 

“Elias is an idiot,” he said at last, running his thumb lightly over Jon’s cheekbone. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“Of course not,” Jon said. How gorgeous he sounded, when he was genuinely unsure.

“Of course not,” Martin repeated. When he bent down and finally, finally kissed Jon’s mouth, Jon shuddered, stumbling backwards. Martin’s lips brushed against his nose. “I’ve only ever wanted you safe. You’re safe here. That’s all that matters to me.” He kissed Jon again, lighter even than before. “You’re all that matters to me.”

“Martin -” Jon said, shakily. 

Nobody, thought Martin, was as perfect as Jon. _ Nobody _yearns so beautifully, so desperately for connection and love than Jonathan Sims. 

“Jon,” he murmured, lovingly, tenderly, against his mouth. This time, it was Jon who kissed him; his hand grabbed Martin by the collar, fierce and trembling, and he didn’t let Martin move away. Martin smiled and kissed him back, letting his eyes fall shut. 

Basira could have her villain and Helen her old friend and Elias his powerful Archivist. They didn’t matter. None of them knew; none of them _ felt. _ Underneath all their words there was only Jonathan Sims, _ aching. _ Aching and clinging to one last breath of fragile, unreachable humanity, and all of it was _ Martin’s _. 

“I love you,” Jon gasped in between two kisses. “I love you. I love you I love -”

Martin’s hands stilled; he chased Jon’s truth away with his mouth, but he could still hear it; suddenly it prickled under his skin, tore through the pleasant, dizzying feeling of Jon’s longing, to grab at Martin’s insides and twist them violently. His whole body began to shake as he kissed Jon deeper, unable to stop himself, wanting - more. God, he wanted more, and every time they parted to breathe, Jon would stammer _ I love you _ like a plea, like an attack, and Martin’s heart would beat faster, louder, too big for his chest, too warm for the constant chill of his blood, too _ much - _

God, he thought, unable to properly focus, bruising Jon’s lips even as he gently pushed him backwards, back to his throne, back to his life - god, to have Jon. To properly have him, just for a little while, the real Jon, not the ghost of his eyes and his laugh -

Too much. Not enough. It would never, _ ever _be enough - 

Martin melted into the fog, shuddering with pain, overwhelmed and impossibly happy; on his way out, his hand blindly grabbed the tape recorder on Jon’s desk, and he tenderly stole the few tears that had fallen from Jon’s unblinking eyes.

* * *

Martin bought a new calendar. Something he thought Jon would like, with quotations of famous authors for each new day. He checked the date at last, and turned the page to the 25 of April, 2033.

He wrote the same thing on the new tape, and carefully placed it on top of the last. 

Then he grabbed Jon’s blanket on the couch and enveloped himself in it. He pushed his nose into it, and pretended Jon was here. 

He wasn’t, of course; he’d never came here, and he never would.

He wasn’t surprised when he started sobbing. He just felt his lips stretch into a giddy smile, and cried like a child into the blanket. 

It always felt so impossibly good to miss Jon.

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you guys are all thinking: "Elodie, why does all your Watcher's Crown stories seem to involve Jonathan Sims literally chained to a throne"
> 
> And to that I say: "I don't have to answer you, talk to my Eldritch Patron"
> 
> Now but honestly, if you guys want to come crying to me about lonely!Martin, you can find me [ here as always ](https://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com)


End file.
